


who's scruffy-looking?

by vivelarepublique



Series: Road Trip AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Fall Out Boy Lyrics, Gen, Grantaire and Enjolras are huge dorks, Gratuitous Star Wars References, Hitchhiking, Kinda, M/M, New York City, References to Homer, Road Trip, Star Wars References, also because Grantaire, because I mean Grantaire, who really like Star Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelarepublique/pseuds/vivelarepublique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras needs to get out of small-town Nowheresville, and with Combeferre in New York City, it only makes it more logical to go there. It's just <i>getting there</i> that's the problem. </p><p>So that's how Enjolras ends up on the side of the road, suitcases in tow. When he does manage to hitch a ride, it's from a scruffy-looking man named Grantaire, who will change his life more than Enjolras would have ever thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who's scruffy-looking?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look, I'm finally posting this! As with the other Daily Drabbles, written for [Emily](http://grantairely.tumblr.com) and [Allison](http://masterandcaptain.tumblr.com)-approved.

Enjolras would be lying if he said that he never thought he would run away from home, but he never did quite think it would be in such a...cliché manner. He could already see Combeferre now, reprimanding him in his unique, worrisome way. But Combeferre was already in college in New York City with his own apartment and and not stuck in Nowheresville, New York state.

And hitchhiking wasn’t _that_ bad of an idea, was it?

Well, regardless, Enjolras knew how to defend himself and had enough common sense (Combeferre would argue with this, but again, Combeferre wasn’t here now, was he?) to not get in a car with just _anyone_.

A few more minutes passed. Wow, Enjolras had never quite realized how cold it got so quickly out here. Or how truly desolate his hometown was. Someone had to drive through at some point though, right? Enjolras was starting to second-guess himself only a little bit when a beat-up, green pickup truck slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road where he was.

A tanned, scruffy-looking man with a beanie pulled over unruly black curls stuck his head out pickup’s window. Enjolras was a bit startled by how young he was (and how blue his eyes were). He couldn’t have been much older than Enjolras was.

“Need a lift there, blondie?”

Enjolras was a bit taken aback by the nickname, but the man didn’t look like a serial killer and it was starting to get dark, so he was a little more willing than usual to take his chances. “Are you heading to New York City?”

The dark-haired man chuckled. “Where else is there to go from here _but_ there?”

Enjolras couldn’t argue with that.

“I’m Grantaire, by the way,” the man said.

“I’m Enjolras.”

“And I thought I had a strange name!” Grantaire laughed.

“It’s French; my parents are Québecois,” Enjolras said, a bit stiff.

“Ah yeah, I bet they’re a barrel of laughs, too, if they’ve got you on the side of the road trying to hitchhike your way to the city.”

“...You could say that.”

“Well then, the night is only growing colder, but you sure you want to leave? No regrets? Ready for the big city?”

“I’ve been ready.” Enjolras said, looking him straight in the eyes with steely determination.

Grantaire gave him an odd look in return, but asked, “Do you need any help with your bags?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

“Alright, just toss ‘em in the back then.”

Enjolras lugged his large suitcase and almost-as-large duffel bag over to the truck and lifted them over the edge into the bed. He kept his backpack with him, just in case. As grateful as he was for the lift, the truck looked like it could fall apart at any minute and Enjolras was not risking his laptop taking a dive on the asphalt.

“Hop in!” Grantaire called from the front. “Oh and mind you, the passenger door sticks though, so you’ll have to give it a good yank.” It took Enjolras a few tries, but he got the door open and slipped in, foot clinking against some empty glass bottles as he slide in and buckled up.

“Well then, away we go!” And with that, the vehicle wheezed into drive. “She just takes a while to warm up,” Grantaire said with an affectionate pat on the dashboard.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure this thing is legally drivable?”

“That’s an interesting question, coming from the hitchhiker.” Enjolras coughed. Grantaire did have a point there. “And she may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts."

“Who’re you, Han Solo?” Enjolras said with a raised eyebrow.

“Alas, no, I am merely Grantaire but this,” he patted the dashboard again, “is the Falcon. Though whatever you want to call me is fine by me, your Highnessness.”

Enjolras bit his tongue half to prevent a witty retort and half to keep himself from laughing. He decided to change the subject instead.

“So what brings you out here to the middle of nowhere, anyway?”

“The last leg of a cross-country road trip.”

“You came across the country in this thing? You’re braver than I thought,” Enjolras said with a smirk.

Grantaire laughed. “Well, the seat may be Chewie’s, but you sure have got the Leia quotes down. I suspect you aren’t headed to New York City for Comic Con though. Bit late for that.”

Enjolras was silent a moment. “I’m sick of feeling trapped in my own home, sick of being stuck in a backwards slice of small town America that just makes you want to scream,” he took a breath. “And I’m sick of waiting for nothing to change. I have to go somewhere where I can make the change happen.”

“And you think you going to the Big Apple is going to bring about all these miraculous changes?” Grantaire scoffed. “You idealists! I do admire your conviction, if only because I lack any convictions myself. But I mean, look where idealism got things like Occupy Wall Street. The corruption is still there,” he shrugged. “Nothing changes.”

Enjolras bristled a little as he carefully articulated a response. “Well, Occupy Wall Street suffered from logistical issues and a lack of concrete goals. But yes, I believe that being in such an influential city will naturally allow me to have more influence.”

“No need for the dirty looks and venomous words, your Worshipfulness. More power to you if you think you can change this crazy government and even crazier world.”

Just then, the Falcon hit a dip in the road. There was a _pop_ and then a very unpleasant sound as the metal from the rim of one of the back tires scraped pavement. Grantaire let out a groan and put the vehicle in park.

“Speaking of a crazier world... I guess of the five people that use this road, none of them bothered to say anything about this pothole,” Grantaire sighed. Enjolras flushed. Every local knew to avoid that part of this road, but he had been so caught up in arguing, he hadn’t even thought to say anything. “Alright, then your Worship, earn your ride and help me change this tire.”

Figuring it was the least he could do, Enjolras hopped out of the car, carefully closing the door behind him.

“The spare’s right there in the back; should be by your stuff.”

Sure enough, the tire had slide to the back of the bed next to Enjolras’ bags. He reached in and grabbed it, going around to the side where Grantaire already had the car jack out and had begun to lift the car up.

As if reading Enjolras’ mind, he sighed, “Let’s just say this has happened enough times that I’ve learned to keep this guy handy.”

Despite the chill, Grantaire had rolled up his his sleeves. With his bare skin now visible, Enjolras could see tattooed vines wrapping around his left arm while words lined the inside of his right wrist. Grantaire glanced up from the pavement, noticing Enjolras’ gaze before he could look away.

“Ah, sorry...” Enjolras stumbled.

“No, no, don’t be. Haven’t seen many tattoos in Nowheresville then?”

“Not quite like those. Is that Greek?”

 

Grantaire nodded. “Got grape vines going on this arm and some Homer on this arm.’μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος οὐλομένην, ἣ μυρί᾽ Ἀχαιοῖς ἄλγε᾽ ἔθηκε,’” Enjolras shivered at the sound of the ancient words rolling off his tongue. “Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus / and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achians, / hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades...” or whatever your preferred translation is. The opening of _The Iliad.”_

 

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah, I don’t quite look like a Classics dude, but,” he shrugged, “guilty as charged. Now hand me that tire.”

Enjolras blinked and hastily handed over the tire. He had almost forgotten why they were outside.

Grantaire unceremoniously tossed the busted tire into the bed of the pickup with a _thunk_ and quickly got the car back on all four wheels. This time Enjolras managed to get the door open on the first try before Grantaire wheezed the car into gear once more.

After they’d driven a few miles in silence, Grantaire gave a small cough and pointed to the CD player in the car. Enjolras was surprised the truck even had one. “Do you mind?” Enjolras shook his head. If he wanted to sleep, he could do so through whatever music Grantaire had.

Grantaire punched the play button and the stereo flickered to life.

_I am an arms dealer, fitting you with weapons in the form of words..._

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Fall Out Boy? Really?”

“Oh, I’m impressed you got it that fast.”

“This was only on the radio every other song back in 2007.”

“Go easy on the judgment there, your Highnessness. I will admit, there was a lot of mediocre shit on their latest album, but this,” he kissed his fingers like a chef praising a dish, “is this the good stuff.” Enjolras merely raised an eyebrow at him, though Grantaire wasn’t looking.

“Well, you enjoy your _‘goddamned arms race’_... If you don’t mind, I’m going to try and get a bit of sleep before we get to the city.”

Grantaire shrugged and kept his eyes on the road, seemingly apathetic.

Enjolras drifted off to Grantaire softly singing along to a song that he didn’t recognize; it must not have been one of the more played tunes from the album. It was nice, soft and slow, something _golden,_ and before he knew it, Enjolras was asleep.

*

Enjolras felt a surprisingly soft poke on his arm. “Alright, wake up, sunshine!”

“Mhm?” Enjolras rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Considering he’d dozed in a piece of junk, his nap had been surprisingly comfortable. He was certain he probably had terrible bedhead, but any concern about that evaporated once he looked out the window.

“We’re _here,”_ he whispered, half to himself, half to Grantaire, “we’re _really_ here!”

“Yes we are, and we are _really_ stuck in some lovely NYC traffic. So hold onto your horses for a bit. Where is it in the city that you want to go, anyway? Have any friends here?” Enjolras was silent for a moment. “Oh, God, _please_ tell me you know somebody in this city. Though I pride myself on my apathy, whatever remains of my conscience would not allow me to leave you to fend for yourself in the middle of New York City alone.”

“No, I do have a friend here, it’s just...”

“You haven’t told him you were coming?”

Enjolras nodded sheepishly.

“Well, I don’t think that anybody, even if they were merely acquainted with you, could refuse your presence.”  Enjolras flushed a bit. “Well, call them, shoot them a text even. We’ll be here for another, oh,” Grantaire craned his neck out the window for a better view of the traffic, “fifteen, twenty minutes, at least. And then I want to show you one of my favorite places in the city.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him.

“No, no, not a dreadfully boring monument or anything. Just a café. The least I can do is get you something warm to drink before we part ways.”

“But you’re the one who drove me all the way here,” Enjolras protested.

“And you’re the one who put up with my punk music and sci-fi geekery. It’s the least I can do. You know, to satisfy that dreadful conscience of mine. Put it out of its misery for a bit.”

Thirty minutes later, after parking in a sketchy back lot (“It’s safe, I swear! I know the neighbors!” “I’m not leaving my stuff out in the back of your pickup, Grantaire.”) and subsequently toting Enjolras not-insignificantly-heavy bags a couple blocks over (“How many books did you pack??” “Only the essential ones!” “Well, the essentials need some abridging.”), the two found themselves in front of a small, hole-in-the-wall café.

“ _Musain?_ What does that mean?”

“Hmm, I dunno. I just always found it a- _musing.”_ Grantaire said with a smirk, pointedly ignoring Enjolras’ glare. He instead chose to open the glass door for him, causing a little bell to ring. “After you, your Highnessness.”

“You really are a scruffy-looking nerfherder,” Enjolras muttered, stepping through the door nonetheless, bags in tow.

The Musain was a cozy place, tables scattered around pell-mell, wallpaper peeling slightly, colorful curtains a bit faded. It seemed lived in, not the kind of place tourists would go perhaps, but a place where broke college students would study and hang out, the kind of place that had regulars.

“And the prodigal son returns!” A voice came from behind the counter. Its source was a thin, olive-skinned girl with her long black hair tucked unceremoniously into a cap, who put down the glasses she had been cleaning in order to better talk to them.

“Hello to you too, Eponine,” Grantaire said, letting the young woman come and give him a hug.

“And wow, who is this?” Eponine said, turning her attention to Enjolras now. She reminded him a bit of a wolf and he felt his mouth go a little dry. Enjolras was not one to be intimidated, but the new environment would take him a bit of time to get used to. “Did you pick up a boyfriend on your journey and neglect to tell any of us? Now _this_ calls for a d--”

“He's a hitchhiker I picked up on the way here, Eponine,” Grantaire said with a cough. If Enjolras didn’t know better, he would swear he was blushing. His face felt a bit warm, too, but he figured that was probably because of the temperature difference between the cozy café and the frosty early evening outside. Yeah, definitely the temperature. “He’s new to the city. I thought I’d show him this ol’ place before he gets in touch with his friend.”

“Aren’t you the loyal patron,” Eponine laughed before turning her glinting brown eyes back to Enjolras. “Well, welcome to the big city...?”

“Enjolras,” he said, extending his hand and giving Eponine’s a firm shake.

“And I’m Eponine. Hmm, Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras,” Eponine said, as if trying the name on for size. “That name does sound familiar.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before.”

Eponine laughed. “Well, I hope to see you around, Enjolras.”

“Likewise,” Enjolras found himself saying.

“Wait, wait, wait, before you go sneaking off, ‘Ponine!” Grantaire called as Eponine began to sneak off behind the bar again. “Blondie, what do you want to drink?”

“A tea would be nice.”

“Jesus, you’re boring. _I’ll_ have the usual.”

Grantaire’s “usual” contained _distinctly_ more alcohol than Enjolras’. Enjolras wrinkled his nose at the smell of it as they took their drinks over to a table in the back room.

“It’s only just turned noon...”

“And your point is...?”

Enjolras somehow felt it would be futile to argue the point and so just sighed instead. When they reached the back room, which Enjolras was hoping would just be quiet, he could drink his tea, and then he could meet up with Combeferre and everything would somehow fit into place.

What he found in that back room was certainly not quiet, but it would end up being much more important.

“Heyoooo Grantaaaaire! You’re back! And who the hell is this newbie?” This inquiry came from a mildly terrifying man with tattoos all up and down his arms and torso too from the look of it, ink peeking up from the collar of his t-shirt. He had a jovial laugh and a black eye, and both seemed to fit him equally well.

“Hey there, Bahorel,” Grantaire said, taking another swig from his drink. “And this,” Grantaire gestured vaguely in Enjolras’ direction, “is Enjolras. Small town guy seeking to change the world by coming to the big city.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and was about to explain himself in a manner that _didn’t_ sound the beginning of a particularly bad novel when he saw a familiar face.

“...Combeferre?”

A man with dark hair and skin and thin wire frames perching on his nose looked over his shoulder where he had been talking to an enthusiastic, auburned-haired man.

“Enjolras?? I know I said to meet me later, but how...?”

“Grantaire gave me a ride here,” Enjolras pointed at Grantaire, whose confused face was reflected in those of everyone else in the room besides Enjolras and Combeferre.

“Oh, wow. Talk about coincidences. Umm. These are the friends I’ve been telling you about.”

“...Oh. Oh. Wow. A coincidence indeed.” Enjolras stood in awe for a little bit before not being able to restrain himself anymore and dropping his bags, and almost spilling his tea on a bald man sitting at a table right by him, ran over and tackled Combeferre in a hug. The two laughed and evidently any friend of Combeferre’s and was a friend of the rest of the group.

The next hour was a rush of introductions and hugs and drinks (which Enjolras politely refused). But Enjolras couldn’t help but look back in one of the corners, where Grantaire was involved in a conversation with the scary tattooed guy, who Enjolas later learned was called Bahorel. He also swore he caught Grantaire looking at him a few times, but he must’ve been mistaken.

So as the sun began to go down, and the group began to disperse, Enjolras excused himself from a conversation with a young poet named Jehan to go to the back corner himself, where Grantaire still sat, alone now.

“I thought these were your friends,” Enjolras said quietly, pulling up a rickety chair to sit beside him.

“Just didn’t feel much like socializing,” Grantaire said nonchalantly, taking another gulp from his drink.

“Well, regardless, I wanted to thank you for bringing me here. Musain here and NYC here,” Enjolras clarified.

“Anything for you, Highness.”

Enjolras snorted. “I swear, If I didn’t know you were referencing _Star Wars...”_

Grantaire laughed and Enjolras couldn’t help but smile.

“Well, I do have to go. Combeferre’s letting me crash at his place. But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. At least for now.”

“For now?” It was Grantaire’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Enjolras.

“Well, everybody knows that every rebellion needs a good scoundrel.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really like _Star Wars_ like a lot, so this fic was a tad bit self-indulgent. The prompt started out as "road trip AU" and became less "road trip" and more "how many Star Wars references are too many in this fic?" rather quickly. The juxtaposition of Grantaire as Han and Enjolras as Leia is interesting... Though, Leia more as a Senator and/or Jedi and none of that monarchy-esque "Princess" stuff for Enjolras. A-hem. I digress. 
> 
> The translation of the opening lines of _The Iliad_ is from Richmond Lattimore's translation, by the way!
> 
> Perhaps this will just be a verse where the Amis take road trips? _On verra._
> 
> As always, you can also find me on tumblr at [vivelarepublique](http://vivelarepublique.tumblr.com)! :D


End file.
